Never forget that
you’re making a memory
As far as kids are concerned, once a year when December
rolls around, the kitchen starts smelling of freshly baked Christmas cookies, lights
suddenly decorate what they believe to be the most beautiful tree they’ve ever
seen, and when they write a letter to Santa Claus, you can bet that the big guy
will take the time to write them back (shout out to Canada Post, whose gracious
volunteers reply to each and every letter addressed to the man in the big red
suit).
As parents, you know that there is always someone behind the
scenes making the magic happen; someone who buys the presents, someone who
cooks the turkey, and someone taking cover behind the curly white beard (or if
you grew up in our house, wearing white underwear and delivering a pillow case
full of treats outside your door).
I always feel bad when I hear from people whose childhood is
described as somewhat less than merry, especially when I think back to the
effort my parents put into creating beautiful holiday memories nearly thirty
years in the making. We would always buy our Christmas tree mid-December,
marking the official start to the holiday season. My dad would blast John
Lennon’s “So this is Christmas” loudly throughout the house and Christmas
baking would begin, filling the kitchen with a buttery smell that would have
all the kids stuffing ourselves with shortbread every night before bed.
The anticipation leading up to Christmas Eve was a wonderful
kind of torture. After stuffing ourselves full of a French-Canadian feast
circling around a delicious meat pie, we would hop into bed well before
midnight in adherence to the strict schedule set by NORAD who provided regular
updates as per the whereabouts of you know who.
When we awoke on Christmas morning (after having already
opened our pillow cases and comparing our loot), we would be ushered downstairs
to the sound of Christmas music and phone calls coming in from every corner of
the world where family and friends waited to catch up on the happenings of
another year gone by. When we got a bit older, we would toast with a bit of
champagne and orange juice and, after exchanging gifts, make a big breakfast of
bacon and eggs, curl onto the couch still wrapped in our PJs, and watch
whatever Christmas movie one of us had received as a gift that year. That night, we’d
head over to dad’s side of the family (the Brits) and do it all over again.
No matter how old we were, during the holiday season, time
just seemed to come to a standstill. Roles within the family would shift as
younger members joined the ranks, but that warm fuzzy feeling never left,
regardless of the number of years passing us by. Now that I’m older, I can
appreciate that these memories were the real gifts my parents gave me every
Christmas; a roomful of family (a clan to be exact), a house full of love, and
small moments that made Christmas such a magical time of year. It was never
about the presents (although they were always well-received) but about the
anticipation of a day that couldn’t be ruined, couldn’t be anything less than
perfect, and it never was.
Like many moms and dads, I’ve become acutely aware of the
responsibilities that come with my newfound role as a parent. I’m not only the baster
of turkeys or the buyer of Christmas presents to wrap in multi-coloured bows;
I’m a real live memory maker. I have the power to shape a childhood and create
the moments that my children will pass onto their children and so on – and so
do you. So, as your kids are running through the hallways on a sugar high and
you’re cleaning the pile of dishes used to serve up a stellar meal that only
took 9 hours to prep and you’ve reached the point where you just want to be
done with all the hoopla, remember to slow down. Remember that you’re not just
cooking, wrapping, decorating, baking and so on. You’re making a memory that
will last a lifetime and giving your kids the best gift of all.
Blog written by Arden Jobling-Hey: new mom, momstown Milton member, travel fiend,
freelance writer and blogger at www.thefriendlygiraffe.com.
